"You are the only person," she had said to him, "to whom my books are
really tokens," and she had smiled very radiantly as if he were the only
person who had discovered the real secret of her books. George reflected
sadly that he was the only person who understood her. Why, it was
maddening to think that any one reading those paragraphs in the "Times"
might imagine her middle-aged and ugly and spectacled. And how were they
to know that her knowledge of cricket averages was probably greater than
that of the Selection Committee? Probably, too, they pictured her with
short hair, June, with her crinkling crown of autumn beach leaves; and
thick ankles, June with her Shepperson legs; and blunt inky fingers,
June with her rosy pointing nails and her hands like uncurling fans.

His mind went to other things, her low hard volleys and the lithe, easy
grace with which she leapt over the lawn-tennis net. In thinking of her,
the irritation her writing caused him decreased. It seemed altogether
too irrelevant. June was the sort of woman one did things for. Helpless,
he reflected with satisfaction, thinking of her tininess. Why, he could
lift her up with one hand. George always mixed up physical phenomena
with psychological fact. Small women were in need of protection; pale
women were delicate; clever women were masculine--the greatest of all
crimes. June might think it funny to be clever, but no one could deny
that she was feminine--the sort of woman who appealed to you to do
little tiny things for her (things you would have done in any case), as
if they were very important and very dramatic and very difficult. George
liked the sort of woman who said to him: "Mr. Carruthers, you who know
everything----" It was apt, of course, to lead you into a lot of
trouble, but that was one of the necessary results of being a man and
having a superior intellect. June wasn't like that. She never asked you
for legal advice or financial tips. She simply thought it most angelic